Her brother Raymond

Mental illness

The smell of other people's urine

People who say, "Thank you kindly."

People who say, "Ta, love."

People who say, "Ta muchly."

People who say, "Muchas gracias." (Unless they're Spanish, but they

never are.)

People who say, "Merci bow-coup." (Unless they're French, but they

never are.)

Customers who ask for receipts

People who say, "Here's the thing."

People whose names are actually surnames (e.g., Mr. Buchanan

Buchanan)

Schoolchildren, particularly the very young

Red lights

Pedestrian crossings

Her father

Please note: this is not a complete list.

Day 59 . . .

Jemima was on the afternoon shift. "Hello, Celtic Psychic Line, Mystic Maureen speaking, how may I help? Cards? Very well, dear. And your name? Laurie. Now what appears to be the problem?"

Jemima listened. And listened. When the tale of woe eventually ended, Jemima said briskly, "No, dear heart, he's not going to marry you."

"That's on the cards?" Laurie's voice yelped.

Jemima hadn't actually consulted the cards yet. Quickly, she cut the deck. The Knave of Hearts, a young bachelor devoted to enjoyment: that came as no surprise. She cut again. The ten of Swords: grief, sorrow, loss of freedom.

"Dear heart, permit me to be frank: one doesn't need to be psychic to know that this chap of yours is a wastrel and a scoundrel. A scut, if I may be so bold. Kick him to the curb!" She picked another card. The Queen of Diamonds. Oh my! "And don't be surprised if he subsequently makes overtures to your sister."

"But she's seven months pregnant."

"I'm seeing a fair-haired woman given to gossip and wanting in refinement. A spiteful flirt."

"That's my mum! He's hardly going to put the moves on my mum!"

"There are few limits to this young man's perfidy," Jemima said darkly. "Yes, he's a wrong 'un and no mistake."

"But I love him."

"You merely think you do. But there is someone far better on his way to you." She felt there was no harm in saying this. There probably was someone on his way to Laurie, but she'd never meet him if she stuck with this ne'er-do-well. She picked another card. The Ace of Cups. "You will be calm and content."

"I don't want to be calm and content. I'm nineteen!"

"Quite right." She picked another card. The Ten of Clubs. "I see travel by sea."

"The Dublin Bay Sea Thrill." Laurie sounded downcast.

Jemima picked the final card. The Ace of Clubs. This was a very good one, even though you were supposed to pretend there was no such thing as "good" or "bad" cards and that it was all a matter of interpretation. "Aha. Pleasant tidings. Money is on its way to you."

"Okay, that's a bit better."

"I wish you well, my dear, and I urge you not to ring again. The cost-per-minute is dreadfully high-I'm afraid I have no influence over what they charge-and the answer isn't going to change. Spend your money on something better. Buy yourself a nice . . ." What did young people wear? ". . . a nice thong and go out . . ." What did young women do? ". . . go out binge-drinking with the money."

"Binge-drinking?"

"Not to the point of incapacity, but have a few . . . what are those delightful-looking, ruby-hued drinks? Sea-breezes? Yes. Go dancing. Smile. Have fun. Forget this cad. Bye for now."

She hung up. She was supposed to keep them on the line for as long as possible, running up astronomical costs on their credit cards. It was a disgraceful racket, one of the many ways the modern world took advantage of the sad and lonely, and in her own small way Jemima was quite the subversive. Sooner or later the owners of this wretched Celtic Psychic Line would find out what she was up to but, in the meantime, so many people to help, so little time.

As she waited for the next call, and it wouldn't take long-there seemed to be an endless stream of lovelorn young women seeking psychic guidance-she looked around at her dark, crowded living room. It never failed to lift her spirits.

Jemima had lived in her little flat for five years and she adored it. Her now-deceased and much-missed husband, one Giles, had been an architect who had designed an award-winning example of "High Modernism," which was built (due to vocal objections from residents in almost every other part of Ireland) in County Monaghan. "High Modernism" meant glass, lots and lots of glass. Acres of the stuff. Jemima used to have nightmares that she'd been charged with the task of cleaning all the windows in the world and her only tools were a small bottle of Windowlene and an old newspaper. Then she would discover that she was not, in fact, asleep.

In addition to the constant daily round of window-cleaning, Jemima had never felt entirely comfortable in attending to her private needs. For example, if she was rereading Madame Bovary and was overtaken by an irresistible basic need-as can happen to all human beings, regardless of their moral rectitude or exalted position in life-such as to scratch her bottom, she was obliged to check first that three or four bored locals didn't have their sights trained on her. That was the main trouble with Pokey: there was absolutely nothing to do, and spying on the oddball Protestant in her ludicrous glass cube was accepted as a hobby by local employers on job applications, along with compulsive gambling and suicide ideation.

When Giles shuffled off his mortal coil, Jemima felt his loss with shocking impact but she wasted no time putting the Glass House on the market. To the almost-orgasmic pleasure of the agent, she said she was prepared to throw in all the lightweight titanium furniture, which had been specifically designed for the house. They were welcome to it, she thought. She was off to Dublin, armed with great plans to trawl auction rooms, seeking dark, heavy stuff, furniture of substance.

She'd had enough of Pokey. There weren't enough needy people to give her do-goodery tendencies their full rein. Also, if she were to be perfectly honest, she was sick to her craw of green fields. Yes, it was buzzy Dublin for her, as close to the city center as she could afford. She wanted to feel life going on all around her. Luckily, Dublin house prices having been what they were five years ago, her needs were modest. Two bedrooms, so that Fionn could stay whenever he wanted, but otherwise a small little place was perfect for her needs. She wanted minimal housework, no window cleaning and-most liberating of all-no wretched garden with its need for perpetual upkeep!

The move was not without its upheaval. Fionn was the issue. She would miss him terribly and, of course, he would miss her. But she wouldn't be alive for ever. Time to cut the apron strings.

Day 59 . . .

Lydia was having a right old Irkutsky day of it. The city was riddled with summer tourists and a busker-a bloody busker, no less, some madman with an accordion-had attracted such a large crowd in Westmoreland Street that people had spilled into the street, dancing, causing her to swerve and almost collide with a cyclist, who shrieked red-faced, moral-high-ground, no-carbon-emissions abuse at her. She hated buskers with their passive-aggressive pretense at providing a service. Even when they were atrocious you felt obliged to give them a couple of bob because they were making the effort. People who simply sat on the pavement begging for money, that she could deal with. It was a much more honest transaction because you knew what you were getting, which was precisely nothing.

And she hated cyclists-another sanctimonious bunch with their namby-pamby whining about doing their best for the environment so it was okay for them to navigate the roads like lunatics and it was up to taxi drivers, decent people such as herself, to be responsible for their safety. If she ruled the world, cyclists would be shot on sight.

Then she unwrapped her breakfast bagel to discover that the boy in the sandwich shop had, on his own, added chopped cabbage to her cream cheese. Even if she didn't abhor cabbage-which surely all non-madzers did-in what universe did he think that cream cheese and cabbage would go together?

Overwhelmed by the bagel atrocity, she began thinking about other atrocities until she had to pull into a parking space and ring her brother Murdy, who murmured, "I know how you feel," when clearly he didn't because, if he did, he'd do something.

"Come down at the weekend," he said. "We'll discuss it over supper. I've got to go now."

Tears of Murmansky frustration interfering with her vision, she pulled back out into the traffic and, in quick succession, almost drove into a bus, almost rear-ended a scaredy-cat student driver and almost took the side off a white van, the driver of which treated her to a stream of abuse in a strong Cavan accent. Abuse she could take, abuse she was used to, but abuse in a Cavan accent, now that was pushing it. Taxi drivers, she thought grimly, are the scapegoats of the driving world. We are everybody's whipping boy.

All the same, perhaps she should wait until she was a little bit calmer before continuing her day's work. As soon as she found another vacant spot, she parked and rang her brother Ronnie, then wished she hadn't. Novosibirsk!

Day 59 . . .

Brutal and all as Danno's assessment was of Katie's relationship with Conall, Katie had to admit that he had a point. This is all my own fault, she acknowledged. Right from the very first time she'd gone out with Conall, the warning signs were there. After that shambles, she thought darkly, she should have killed the whole thing there and then.

It had been such a big deal, the first date. Conall had actually presented her with a travel folder. "Tomorrow a car will pick you up from home at twelve. You're flying to Heathrow at two."

"And then what?"

"Everything will unfold on a need-to-know."

"We couldn't do something small and normal, like going a round the corner for something to eat?"

He'd laughed; he'd thought she was joking.

"What am I meant to wear for this magical mystery tour? Because if it's sturdy boots and a hat with earflaps, I'm not coming."

He laughed again. He was still finding her every utterance absolutely enchanting. "A dress. Formalish."

A little desperately, she said, "I need more information than that."